Okay, so there has been a request that I not channel large, furry, woodland animals whilst posting to the blog. (Papa Bear sad now.) Apparently I may have creeped out one or two of our few diligent readers, and for that I do sincerely apologize. (Growl!)Moving right along, we have decided upon a temporary moniker for our little cub -- I mean baby. That's right little baby boo, we now dub thee "Chi-Chi." We have given you this name not in honor of legendary golfer Chi-Chi Rodriguez, but rather after a particularly memorable meal that your daddy ate one fateful evening in the fall of 1993.
You see, little Chi-Chi, I was a young man of 18 back then, on my way to college in a small Minnesota town. The whole family was along to see me off, and, seeking nourishment in an unfamiliar land, we stopped for a Mexican dinner at a strip mall off I-494, not far from the Mall of America. Now coming from the West, we were well-schooled in the way of the enchilada, but never before had we dined at Chi-Chi's, a distinctly Mid-Western establishment.
That fact, however, did not stop me and your Uncle Matthew from ordering the "El-Presidente" special. Tacos, enchiladas, possibly a taquito or two, rice, refried beans. The Prez had it all, and it was all covered in lots and lots of cheese. Good eating, indeed. That is, until about until six hours later when El Presidente rode back into town, seeking his bilious revenge.
I will spare you the details, dear little Chi-Chi. But suffice it to say that my brief encounter with your Minnesotan namesake is the nearest I can imagine to the bodily upset that you are now visiting upon your poor, precious mother.
And so, until the time comes when your innocent development dispenses with all its digestive displeasure, we shall call you Chi-Chi. And when that happy day arrives, we'll call you Henry...or Bella...
